I was standing as close as I could to the bathroom mirror — well, as close as the countertop between us would allow. I dabbed my finger into the white creamy lotion and dabbed it around my eyes with my pointer finger — the finger you’re not supposed to use on your delicate eye area. The bags under my eyes and I had made a deal: I’d promise to be careful with my pointer finger, if they’d stop looking so dark and broody all the time.
As I smoothed the cream around my tired eyes, I wondered why I was using so little of the product when I desperately needed more and my little tub was nearly full.
“They say you don’t need much.”
“I don’t want to burn through this too quickly.”
“I might not be able to afford to buy more when this runs out.”
Then it hit me. I was doing the same thing in my mothering.
I was holding back, not giving all of my love and affection to my kids in fear of depletion. I feared there wouldn’t be enough of me to go around.
I feared I would empty myself, never to be filled back up again.
I feared I would lose myself completely.
